


it's time to shed this masquerade

by ivorykeys09



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: 5+1, All the phases of their relationship, Angst, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Married Life, Parent-Child Relationship, Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-13
Updated: 2017-06-03
Packaged: 2018-08-30 17:28:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8542231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivorykeys09/pseuds/ivorykeys09
Summary: Five times Felicity borrowed Oliver's clothes without asking, and the one time she did.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> We all need something light this week, right? :) I'm hoping to update this once a week. Enjoy!
> 
> DISCLAIMER: The characters belong to DC, the CW, etc. Just not me.

There are many things she hates about being Oliver’s executive assistant.

Isabel. (Because _ugh._ )

The occasional coffee run. (She’d shut that down pretty quickly though.)

Scheduling meetings. (It’s stressful and Microsoft Outlook is the _worst._ )

Ordering lunch for said meetings. (There are only so many caterers in Starling and though she never hears a ‘thank you,’ someone _never_ misses the opportunity to complain about how much they hate turkey wraps.)

The stares—no _leers_ —of male employees. (Oliver usually gives them a fuck-off look before they do too much damage, but still. It’s annoying.)

But what she hates the _most_ is the temperature.

It’s always freezing.

The air conditioning is resolutely on full blast no matter _what._ It’s as infuriating as it is bone-chilling.

She actually misses the boring, slow days she’d experienced early on; there’d been so few emails and phone calls, she’d been able to spend most of the day sitting at her desk cradling a hot mug of coffee to offset the chill.

But now that Oliver’s schedule is jam-packed and he’s skirted off some additional responsibilities to her (not to mention, the occasional Arrow work she gets done between emails), the loss of her mug method means she’s back to feeling cold constantly.

She once read that Dr. Phil keeps his studio temperature to a cool 64 degrees because all the overhead lights added enough heat for him to A) not get cold, B) not melt his makeup, and C) not sweat on camera.

Her eyes stare longingly at the non-heat-emitting lights twenty feet above her, and ignores the insane, irrational jealousy she feels against Dr. Phil.

For the record, this is not to say she’s never searched for the temperature control. Because she _has_. And if she could _find_ the damn control, she’d adjust it to a comfortable, normal, human-level degree. But after searching for a solid few months with no success, she’s given up.

To cope, she’d invested in some expensive, but incredibly warm cashmere cardigans—and yes, she most certainly _had_ submitted the expense report to Oliver the _very_ next day for a full reimbursement. (He, thankfully, hadn’t even read what it was for; he’d signed it immediately.)

But even with her cozy pink sweater today, the indoor QC weather report is still an extra level of annoyingly chilly, so she makes her third walk to the kitchen in two hours for another cup of coffee.

She’s on her way back when she spots Dig and Oliver in front of her desk—clearly waiting for her return—but before she can get there, she hears a suggestive voice call, “Hey Blondie,” and she grits her teeth in displeasure.

She turns to see Chris DeMarco, a hotshot accountant from the third floor, walking over from the elevators.

Aside from the fact that that nickname is only acceptable from Roy, she has no patience to give Chris even a millisecond of her day, so she gives him an unimpressed look and keeps walking, fully ignoring him.

“Hey, wait up,” Chris bellows, lightly pulling on her shoulder to stop her. His touch is so unexpected, she jerks in surprise, which— _of course_ —sends her mug-holding hand five inches in the air.

Burning hot coffee splashes against her forearm, before dripping down to her wrist and scalding her hand. She hisses in pain, loud enough for Oliver’s attention to snap in her direction. He’s in front of her in two strides.

“Are you okay?” Oliver asks, eyes roaming over her in concern.

Before she can respond, Chris cuts in, “Here, let me help,” then steps too far into her personal space, before reaching out to take the coffee cup. His eager hands grab it too roughly, though, and he ends spilling the rest of it on her fingers.

She sucks in a breath again, and Oliver all but pushes him away. “Aren’t you needed on the third floor?” he pointedly muses, not kindly.

Chris mumbles something, but stalks back towards the elevator bank.

Oliver gently examines her reddened, inflamed hand. “Are you okay?” he asks again, more quietly this time.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” she answers, then peels off her sadly stained cardigan. With the heat from the coffee and sweater now gone, her entire lower arm is left feeling an uncomfortable mix of burning and freezing.

(Because, you know, the hypothermic air-conditioning.)

He takes the wet cashmere and hands it over to Dig, who’s suddenly appeared next to them.

“Can I get you an ice pack or something? Or a cool cloth?” he offers, sounding a little helpless. It’s sweet, but she just needs them to back away. The attention is starting to get on her nerves, and this whole thing is embarrassing enough.

“No, I’m fine,” she assures him, a little snappish, and then feels immediately guilty. Softening, she says, “I’m just going to wash this coffee off my hands. _You_ need to go. Your one o’clock is waiting for you in your office and then you have to meet Thea right after for lunch.”

She brushes past him into the kitchen before he can protest any further, and then makes quick, but gentle (because, _ow_ ) work of washing her hands and brewing a new cup of coffee.

A little while later, her skin thankfully only aches a little, but she’s back to being freezing. With Oliver (and Dig) not due back for another few hours, she debates walking across the street to buy a new sweater from the first store she sees.

But then she remembers Oliver’s closet: the one in his office, where he’s hidden random things like an extra bow and arrows deep in some duffle bags, along with a mini-fridge full of beers (ugh, _men_ ) and an extra suit.

Without thinking twice, she pulls on the black blazer and sighs happily, overcome with immediate warmth. The fabric is soft and smells _so_ achingly like him, she has to force herself to ignore the tugging in her chest.

It’s definitely too big for her, but she makes quick work of rolling up the sleeves to make it look fashionable and—more importantly—intentional _._ She usually doesn’t do the blazer-and-dress combo, but she’s seen it on enough J.Crew mannequins to know the style is in right now, so she can hopefully get away with it.

She practically skips back over to her desk, her mind finally back on track after what has possibly been the shittiest morning of the year. She can actually _think_ now and answer the emails and phone calls she’d been unable to focus on earlier.

His jacket works a little too well, though.

She’s so content, so comfortable, so warm...she _completely_ forgets to take it off and hang it back up before Oliver returns.  

Two hours later, he breezes back in from lunch with Dig on his heels. “Hey, did my mother call?” he asks, then slows his pace as he approaches her desk. “And, what...are you wearing?”

She nearly leaps out of her chair. _Frack._ “I forgot I was wearing this.”

He just tilts his head, his brows crinkling in a way that is maddeningly handsome.

She sighs. “It’s just...the temperature, Oliver. It’s _inhumane_. It’s like sixty degrees! I know you’re hot...I mean, _run_ hot..” she chokes on her own words, cheeks reddening immediately. “I mean. Um. You mentioned one time that you get hot easily...”

“Felicity?”

“Hmm?”

“I know what you mean,” he assures her, lips curling up just a little.

“Okay. Good.” She sighs. “Well...yeah. After the coffee spilled on my sweater earlier, I just got really cold...and I know you keep a spare suit in your closet, so I didn’t think you’d mind?”

He gives her a look she can’t discern, though she doesn’t miss the way his eyes darken. The heat it sends through her is unsettling, but not unwelcome. “I don’t mind.”

“Great,” she says softly.

Now that she’s not behind her desk anymore, his gaze travels down her body, not hiding the fact that he’s taking a moment to appreciate the sight.

“It looks...nice on you,” he remarks quietly.

Out of habit, she brushes nonexistent hair out of her face, before remembering it’s pulled back in a ponytail. “Oh, well, thanks. I’ll return it to your closet before I head home. It won’t happen again.”

“No worries” he says, his voice so low it makes her insides swirl. And then, so quiet she may have imagined it, he utters, “It looks better on you anyway,” and walks into his office.

Well, then.

Is it her fault she conveniently forgets to wear a sweater the following Friday?

.

.

tbc


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the wonderful response to this story! Here’s the next chapter. It’s angsty, but don’t worry...lots of fluff is to come. I also updated the rating for future reasons.

It’s the small things that set her off. The boom of a trash truck early in the morning, overhearing a baby cry, seeing a family eating dinner together. Last week she overheard her neighbor’s kids talking about skipping _rocks_ by the lake.

Every little random thing...it all unravels her.

The entire town had been wiped clean. Everything completely eradicated. The explosion had leveled homes, businesses, _people._ There was no eyewitness footage from survivor’s phones or safety cameras since everything was unrecoverable. No warning had been given, so there wasn’t even time to escape. One second people were living their lives in happy Havenrock, and the next it was over.

Because of _her._

The guilt she feels is so immense, she nearly chokes when she thinks about it. It webs through her skin and pulses through her veins and wracks her bones.

It’s _suffocating_ , but she knows it’s only a fraction of what people like Rory are feeling.

This time, it’s just a match that does it. She’s alone in the lair, with everyone else having just left—Evelyn to god knows where, Rene to his apartment, Rory to his empty home, Curtis back to Paul, Oliver to City Hall, Dig still oversees. Billy’s working late and, to be honest, she doesn’t really feel like seeing him. It’s still new and unfamiliar, and though she likes the buzziness she feels from the flirting he bestows upon her, it doesn’t feel _right_ yet.

So she decides to stay a bit longer before going home, hoping to dig into some leads. The place feels cold—not temperature-wise, because she for _sure_ has full control over that—but...empty and quiet. Lighting a candle always helps, so she grabs a match and scrapes it along the sandpaper. And it’s just the little flame that does it. The spark lights and—

_Whoosh._

Flashes of the news footage immediately play in her mind, the shot of the catastrophic detonation looping over and over, the score of nonexistent screams ringing through her mind.

As her breath quickens, she looks around frantically for anyone, even though she knows she’s alone. The empty room only heightens her fear, only makes her feel even more unsettled and hysterical, and she paces in front of her computers as she assesses what to do. She’s spiraling into a full-blown panic attack, and if she doesn’t catch her breath soon, she knows she’ll pass out from the distress. She needs to feel secure and sheltered, she needs—

_The sweatshirt._

Racing over to the living quarters, she zones in on the dresser and rips open the top drawer, tearing the clothes in search of the familiar fabric. When she doesn’t find it, she moves on to the next drawer, and then the duffel bags on the floor and roots around until she feels it. She cries in relief as she takes big billowing gasps, and pulls it over her head.

It smells like him—like safety, like peace, like home—and though he’s not her’s anymore, and she’s not his, she feels whole again for the first time in months.

He always used to let her wear it. It’s nothing special; just a thick, cotton crewneck sweatshirt with BALBOA ISLAND written in curved letters across the chest. It’s a faded, calming blue that reminds her of the ocean and smells like Oliver and salty air. She always wore his, even though she had a matching one in gray, but he never complained. They’d picked them up during their summer road trip, when they’d fallen more in love the farther down the coast they went. The days were slow and (to others) seemingly meaningless, but to her they were nothing short of significant. The thing she remembers the most is how there was never any rush. There was never anywhere to be, or anyone to see, or anything to do. It was just _them._

Balboa is like something out of a storybook, just on the outskirts of Newport Beach. There’s shops dotted along little streets, a bike path that wraps around the island, and the cutest post office she’s ever seen. When you take the little ferry five minutes across the channel, there’s another strip of land with a little ferris wheel and a wide beach outlined with countless palm trees.

It’s also home to the best dessert she’s _ever_ eaten: a Balboa Bar. It’s just ice cream dipped in hard chocolate and covered with toppings like sprinkles or nuts, but they still returned for one every day after lunch. They’d eaten them until the hot sun had melted the last remaining bites and ice cream had dripped down her fingers, making them sticky and cold. But Oliver would quickly lick them clean and then kiss the rest of the chocolate off of her face before dragging her back to their hotel to taste the rest of her.

On their final evening before heading to Asia, they’d bought the sweatshirts as a token of their time there—the first official souvenirs of their trip.

And so even though she had her own, she’d stolen his the rest of the summer. She’d snuggled in it during the first cool night in Bali when they’d watched some random, romantic fireworks, and when she’d taken an early walk in Positano before he woke up and the heat was slow to come. And during the nights he stayed up late watching ESPN in their family room in Ivy Town, she’d curled up next to him in his sweatshirt and laid her head on his chest, blurring out the game and just focusing on the sound of his heartbeat beneath her.

She drags herself over to the bed in the corner and lays down under the blankets. Once she’s comfortable, she pulls the sweatshirt collar up over her nose, so half of her face is covered by the fabric, and takes a deep breath. The moment she breathes in the familiar smell, she feels her body begin to relax.

_Breathe in._

_Breath out._

_Breathe in._

_Breath out._

She does it every few seconds, until she feels her pulse begin to slow down. The tears keep coming, but the hysteria is gone for now.

The sweatshirt is roomy and big. It swallows her and she welcomes it, because she needs to be swallowed. She needs to be pulled into an abyss, away from the harm she’s caused for just a little while. Her chest feels cracked, her body feels broken, her mind feels numb. She hasn’t seen a doctor or talked to anyone about the panic attacks, but she’d googled some tactics to help her, and has been going through them routinely to try to figure out what works best. She knows that with the right counseling she’ll get back into the right frame of mind, but she wants to suffer a little longer, however stifling it may be.

Closing her eyes, she centers herself and visualizes that perfect day when they’d gotten the sweatshirts. She’d crawled under the sheets and woken him up with her mouth, then dragged him into their big hotel shower they’d come to explore every inch of. After changing and another round of sex, they’d meandered to get coffee and breakfast, before hopping on the quick ferry to the beach. It’d been their routine every day for a week—sometimes she’d bring a book, other times just a towel, but always their bathing suits and each other.

On this day, Oliver had brought a football he’d found during their walk and seemed content playing a solo throw-and-catch as she read some magazines beside him. As the waves crashed before them, he’d just slowly thrown the ball in the air above him, catching it swiftly once gravity pulled it back down. (Just remembering that scene of them side-by-side—with Oliver playing with a _football_ —feels like a different world; it’d been so _normal_.) Some thirty feet away a group of teenagers had been playing beach volleyball, and he’d eventually worked his way over to join in. It hadn’t taken long for her to push her magazine to the side. She’d enjoyed the view of watching her shirtless boyfriend stretch his muscles and work up a sweat spiking the volleyball back and forth over the net. He’d begged her to join in, which she ultimately did—since she quickly realized she could _never_ deny Oliver Queen anything anymore—and they’d played until the sun went down. When she’d slammed the ball down for the winning shot, he’d gently tackled her to the sand in celebration and kissed every inch of her face and neck until the teens hollered for them to get a room. The way back to their hotel had been delightfully slow, thanks to Oliver kissing her against the side of tucked-away buildings every few blocks. They’d spotted the sweatshirts hanging in a shop window on the last corner, and he’d bought them immediately. She’d thanked him _graciously_ that night, then pulled his on for the very first time and fallen asleep.

She wakes with a start to the sounds of rhythmic clanging floating through the air. She’s heard it enough times to know that it’s Oliver on the salmon ladder, which means he knows she’s in here. Just one glance around the room confirms it: the mess she’d made going through his stuff is neat and orderly again, with his clothes folded back in his bags and the dresser drawers shut. Her cheeks flame in embarrassment, dreading the awkward conversation that’s surely to come, but she gets up to face it anyway. To stall for another few minutes, she carefully makes the bed, paying extra mind to wrinkles and corners, before tugging off the sweatshirt. She leaves it folded in the same bag she found it in and misses it the second she zips the duffle closed.   

When she reaches her computer desk, she avoids his gaze and just gathers her bag and coat. There’s so much to say to him that she doesn’t even know where to start. She feels more rested than she has in weeks, but suddenly the thought of complete honesty makes her feel tired again.

The sounds echoing the room tell her when he drops from the bar and starts to walk his way over to her. When he stops a few feet away, she meets his gaze and watches as his eyes map her face.

He breaks the silence first.

“Have a good night,” he says, surprising her by simply leaving it at that. The smile he gives her is small but genuine, though his eyes don’t mask the empathy or helplessness he feels. She’d steeled herself for a fight, but his lack of reaction has her eyes pooling with tears of appreciation. He’s always known when to push her and when to give her space, and though she can tell he’s fighting the restraint with _everything_ in him, this is no exception. She’s not ready yet, but she will be soon; and so she just nods and watches him head back to the showers before making her way home.

She’s always believed that there is a difference between being alone and being lonely—they are not one and the same. But for the past few months, she’s felt both, and it’s as heartbreaking as it is exhausting.

When she sleeps in her dress that night, she tries to convince herself it’s because she’s too tired to change and not because it still smells of him, but she lets the feeling pull her into a dreamless sleep like a lullaby anyway.

She finds the box the next morning. Folded carefully inside is the sweatshirt, along with a note that reads:

_Until you want to talk._

_(It’s always looked better on you, anyway.)_

.

.

tbc

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still with me? I always appreciate comments, if you're inclined to leave one. Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> ETA: A03 keeps deleting the third chapter. Apologies for the confusion! I'll try again later.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you saw an update last week that was quickly deleted...my apologies! AO3 kept deleting the second half of the chapter. Hopefully this works! (And apologies if you received a few email notifications.)
> 
> I am truly appreciative of the response to this story, especially last chapter. I know PTSD is a sensitive subject, so I'm happy you felt it was handled delicately and true to Felicity's character.
> 
> I'm not sure what the protocol is for 5 + 1 fics, but mine is slightly out of order. (Meaning the "1" is in the middle of the story.) I hope you enjoy!

Borrowing—okay, _stealing_ —her fiancé’s clothes is kind of her thing. She usually doesn’t ask and instead chooses to follow the “don’t ask for permission, ask for forgiveness” rule by quietly taking whatever she needs/wants. _All the time._ She would feel bad if it annoyed him, but based on past experience, she’s 100% confident that it doesn’t. In fact, she’s pretty sure he’s a huge fan of it, which is great because ever since they’d gotten back together and, now, _engaged_ , she takes advantage of his wardrobe every chance she gets.

It’s generally his socks or his sweatshirt or his ties for... _reasons_. But whatever it is, she prides herself on being able to take his clothing discreetly, without needing to ask or give a reason for the theft. Besides, it’s always on the basis of comfort or temperature—never _emergencies._

That is, until tonight.

.

.

Felicity, 7:01: where are you? city hall?

Oliver, 7:02: CH. Conference room.  
Oliver, 7:02: Meeting running long.  
Oliver, 7:02: You home?

Felicity, 7:02: no, not home  
Felicity, 7:02: how much longer will u be?

Oliver, 7:03: Not long. Done by 8.

Felicity, 7:03: text when it’s finishing up

Oliver, 7:05: Want to meet here?

Felicity, 7:06: yeah, on my way

Oliver, 7:06: See you soon

Felicity, 7:18: i’m here. no rush.

Oliver, 7:20: Ok. Hungry? BBB for dinner?

Felicity, 7:20: omg  
Felicity, 7:20: does BBB mean Big Belly Burger?!?!?!  
Felicity, 7:20: did you just make up an acronym???

Oliver, 7:21: Yes.

Felicity, 7:21: ❤️  
Felicity, 7:21: i love you  
Felicity, 7:21: meet in your office. after.

Oliver, 7:21: Ok.

Felicity, 7:25: btw your new assistant is nice  
Felicity, 7:25: also i love that u keep emergency lipstick for me in your bathroom here ❤️  
Felicity, 7:25: (just *one* of the benefits of a private bathroom, fyi)

Oliver, 7:26: I thought you would like that.

Felicity, 7:26: putting on the red one u picked out ;)

Oliver, 7:37: Board wants to meet you before they go. We’ll be done in 10.

Felicity, 7:37: NO!!!!  
Felicity, 7:37: code red  
Felicity, 7:37: or...code black???  
Felicity, 7:37: we’ve never gone over codes and colors before but this is an emergency  
Felicity, 7:37: to be clear….not life threatening tho  
Felicity, 7:37: DON’T LEAVE your mtg

Oliver, 7:38: What’s wrong????  
Oliver, 7:38: I’ll be right there

Felicity, 7:38: no!!  
Felicity, 7:38: ur almost done.  
Felicity, 7:38: i can wait  
Felicity, 7:39: it’s fine

Oliver, 7:39: Are you sure?

Felicity, 7:39: yeah  
Felicity, 7:39: i’m fine  
Felicity, 7:39: cross my heart, 100% telling the truth  
Felicity, 7:39: don’t leave the meeting  
Felicity, 7:39: ok?

Oliver, 7:40: Ok…

Felicity, 7:40: stop texting. focus!!

Oliver, 7:42: It’s hard to text under table. But r u sure ur okay? Can’t stop worrying  
Oliver, 7:42: R u still in my office?

Felicity, 7:42: I <3 when you use letters for words  
Felicity, 7:42: it is everything  
Felicity, 7:42: i’m fine babe

Oliver, 7:42: Ok.  

Felicity, 7:43: i’ll be here until you’re done  
Felicity, 7:45: alsoooo random but important q

Oliver, 7:45: Q?

Felicity, 7:45: q = question  
Felicity, 7:45: what are you wearing?

Oliver, 7:46: What am I wearing?

Felicity, 7:46: yeah

Oliver, 7:46: Wait  
Oliver, 7:46: R we really doing this?  
Oliver, 7:46: I can’t text  
Oliver, 7:46: Now  
Oliver, 7:46: Felicity

Felicity, 7:47: ok, then just tell me when ur done mr. mayor

Oliver, 7:47: Fuck

Felicity, 7:47: oh i just read that back again  
Felicity, 7:47: and to be clear  
Felicity, 7:47: i’m not sexting  
Felicity, 7:47: sorry  
Felicity, 7:47: i can see why you’d think so tho  
Felicity, 7:47: ...but we should do that again? another time?

Oliver, 7:48: Fuck

Felicity, 7:48: LOL  
Felicity, 7:48: but seriously  
Felicity, 7:48: what r u wearing

Oliver, 7:49: ?  
Oliver, 7:49: 5 min. Quick intros then BBB

Felicity, 7:49: NO  
Felicity, 7:49: i said don’t bring them here!!  
Felicity, 7:49: code red/black

Oliver, 7:49: ???

Felicity, 7:50: come in here first without them

Oliver, 7:54: I told them you’re in my office already  
Oliver, 7:54: On our way

Felicity, 7:54: STOP  
Felicity, 7:54: just relax  
Felicity, 7:54: and keep a straight face  
Felicity, 7:55: but i don’t have any clothes on  
Felicity, 7:55: so i need ur sweater or something if u want me to meet them  
Felicity, 7:55: also do u have extra pants here?? 

Oliver, 7:55: What??//?//  
Oliver, 7:55: ?/?//  
Oliver, 7:55: Just  
Oliver, 7:55: Felic 

The door cracks open a second later and Oliver slides through before shutting it immediately, phone in hand. She really wishes that she hadn’t _had_ to tell him that she was naked, since she was looking forward to seeing his reaction to her original plan of Surprise Hot Mayoral Desk Sex. But even though he’d been given a heads up, his response is still completely worth it.

“Holy—” He takes in the sight of her on his desk. “Fuck. Can you quickly and _quietly_ —since the board of the Teacher’s Association is right outside in the hallway—explain what is going on?”

The way he’s looking at her makes her shift on the wood surface, and just the movement of her thighs rubbing together has a jolt of desire running through her. Even ten feet away, she can tell his eyes are dark with arousal and it only fuels the burn.

“Sure. So, I figured I’d surprise you with desk sex since we haven’t done that here yet? Which is crazy? But that was before your Big Belly Burger idea...and I was already here waiting for you in... _only_ my trenchcoat. You know that one I got in London? From Burberry?”

He lets out a quiet groan. “Yeah, I know it.” He loves that one, which is exactly why she wore it. Swallowing thickly, he asks, “You came here in only _that?_ ”

She nods and bites her bottom lip, teasing it between her teeth. She knows she’s not playing fair, since he still has to go back out to finish saying goodbye, but the way he’s looking at her right now is hot as fuck and she can’t help herself.  “No one could tell. It’s long and covered...everything.” 

He’s desperate to close the distance between them. The only thing she’s wearing is her engagement ring and heels and the physical effect it has on him is becoming more obvious by the second. 

“I was going to put it on again to meet the board—since they wouldn’t be able to tell—but while I was putting makeup on in your bathroom...sans trenchcoat...your nice new assistant apparently came in and hung it up outside before she left. Or, stole it? I don’t know…” She pauses, considers that for a second, then shakes her head. “Anyway, it’s somewhere. Just not _here_ anymore. I looked everywhere.” She shivers, affected by the cool air and his gaze. “By the way, I’m _super_ glad most of the building has gone home already because I obviously didn’t lock the door and don’t know what I would have done to explain this.” She gestures to herself. “I also disconnected all the security cameras, in case you were wondering.” She crosses her legs again and it fully distracts his attention for another long moment.

His voice is low and Arrow-y when he speaks again. “Even if it was here, there’s no _chance_ you’re only wearing that coat to meet the board. Especially now that I know...you...” He takes a breath, unable to finish his sentence.  “Let me get rid of them.”

She shakes her head, “No—”

A knock sounds on the door. “Mayor Queen? Is everything okay?” interrupts one of the voices from outside.

“Just a minute,” Oliver answers back, closing his eyes to will patience. After taking another deep breath, he suddenly walks over to one of the closets, opens the door, and rifles through a bag buried deep on the bottom shelf. A moment later he unapologetically (though, gently) _throws_ his Star City pullover fleece and sweatpants at her from where he’s standing. “If I come any closer to you, I won’t be able to—” He lets the end of the sentence hang in the air as his eyes shoot daggers at the door. “Just...please put them on before I lose my mind.” She just laughs and gets dressed without question and watches him gather the paperwork needed to finish the meeting.

He takes a long moment to get himself in check before opening the door to introduce her. 

If the TA Board is surprised by her clothing choice, they cover it well, but it’s still not a great look for a first impression. She quickly works up a lie. “Gentleman, you didn’t catch me on my best night. You’ll have to forgive me for my post-, uh, yoga outfit. I just stopped by to pick up Oliver on the way home from class and didn’t realize we’d be meeting for the first time.” Her cheeks are still rosy from arousal, but it at least helps sell her embarrassment and cover-up. She just hopes they don’t notice her freshly-applied lipstick.

Oliver can’t cut in fast enough. Giving a small smile, he holds out the paperwork. “And now if you’ll all just sign the bottom copy here, we can officially end our workday.” He’s been deliberately standing a few feet away from her, but she slowly sidles her way over to him as everyone passes around the forms, and beams when he winks at her. A second later she feels his arm wrap possessively around her waist, and she has to bite back a gasp when his hand dips lower.

It takes an incredibly long minute for everyone to sign the dotted line, but once they do, backs are slapped and hands are shaken, and the construction of the long-awaited new elementary school is officially approved.

“Thanks so much, everyone,” Oliver says, giving the group another smile. “Door’s just down that hall. I imagine you can all see yourselves out?”

He isn’t rude about it by any means, but it’s plainly not a question, so his guests bid goodnight and begin the walk towards the exit.

Pulling her back into his office, he mutters something that sounds like a “Finally _"_ as he presses her against the door.

She rolls her eyes as he locks it. “Honey, you could have at least walked them to the—”

His lips cut her off with a bruising kiss and she suddenly doesn’t care about the Teacher’s Association anymore. The fleece is already being pulled over her head with one hand, while his other pushes down the sweatpants. “Desk sex. Now.” He’s already carrying her over to the table and she’s not about to stop him.

She kisses him. “Okay.” Another kiss. “But then Big Belly?”

He laughs against her mouth. “After this? I’ll give you anything.”

.

.

tbc

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happier than last chapter, right? :) I always appreciate comments, if you're inclined to leave one. Thank you for continuing to read!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the continued support on this story! I hope you enjoy this next one :)

He’s had a really shitty day. With his re-election campaign in full swing, his calendar is filled with so many meetings he’s barely even able to eat lunch.

Thea is acting like he’ll lose the election if he even has _one minute_ free. She has him scheduled to make appearances at the Chamber of Commerce every other week, the school board constantly, the hospital regularly. Quentin even signed him up to ref the little league soccer team to show support for younger families.

Don’t get him wrong; he’s _so_ thankful for the help and support. Really, truly thankful. His early years as mayor were rocky, but he’s in his groove now and he _loves_ his job. His approval ratings are higher than ever and—though he doesn’t like to pay attention to rumors—word on the street is he’ll most likely be reelected. He doesn’t want to take any chances though, so he dutifully nods his thanks to Thea every morning when she runs through his jam-packed day and just quietly looks forward to November.

But still. It’s _a lot_. He’s barely had time to even hit the streets, let alone suit up. It’s days like today that he’s especially glad the crime and usually-consistent villains are seemingly taking a vacation. The team has been able to handle the little incidents that have come up—(“Can you _finally_ admit I was right about recruiting a team?” Felicity still regularly asks, lashes batting)—so without him, they’re definitely covered. And though the lack of adrenaline is something he’s still getting used to, it’s not what he misses the most.

It’s _her._

Aside from, of course, supporting him at dinners and fundraisers, she’s not really involved with his job at City Hall. And even if there _was_ a job for her, they both agreed it’d be too complicated and cause risk for unnecessary suspicion to have her on the payroll.

She stops by his office once a week for lunch, and he’s able to swing by her’s—she’d opened up a small consulting firm to fill her day—so they definitely see each other during work hours. (After all, she’s been abiding by her private vow to him of _very regular_ Mayoral Desk Sex.)

They also see each other every morning and night.

It’s just… he misses the days when she was sitting right _outside_ his office at QC, or the weeks where they were holed up in the lair, and _especially_ the days of their honeymoon. It’s only been six months, but he still aches to go back in time and just freeze it. According to locals, it’d been the best ten days of weather St. Barths had seen in weeks. But he and Felicity had just taken their word for it, because they’d barely left their hotel room the entire time. He’d spent _hours_ tasting every inch of her skin, teasing her weak spots with his teeth and tongue, making her gasp and come more times than he could count. Every time he’d catch sight of her ring-adorned left hand, or felt the diamonds and metal skim across his skin, he’d begun peeling off her clothes immediately. (They’d returned to Star City as pale as when they’d left, and Felicity with almost no voice.)

Just the memory has him driving a little faster back to the lair. She’d had an early meeting this morning, so he hadn’t been able to wake her up in the way he’d wanted to. They’d barely talked all day, so he’s very much looking forward to seeing his favorite person and having a quiet night before heading home. She’d ordered take-out for dinner and was going to show him some files she’d found on Cory Franklin, an out-of-town burglar spending way too much time around Star City Bank. He’d promised to meet her at eight, but—his eyes look guiltily to the dashboard clock—that was almost _two hours_ ago.

Husband of the year, he is _not._

As quickly as he can, he parks the car and makes his way inside to the elevator, praying the entire ride that she’s the only one there. Because the only thing worse than an annoyed wife is other witnesses.

Silence greets him when the doors open, but before he can sigh in relief, he takes in the empty room. The air is filled with the stale, fading aroma of pad thai and the black monitors are quiet enough to show they’ve been off for a while.

“Fuck,” he mutters, pulling out his cell phone and walking more fully into the room. Before he can dial, a voice breaks the silence.

“Oliver Queen,” comes a growly, female voice, “You have _failed...this...marriage._ ”

“What?” he asks, whipping around for the source. Fear rips through him as her words sink in, and he feels his heart trip over itself at the meaning.

She coughs. “Oh, wow. Sorry. That came out scarier than intended,” she says, back in her normal voice. “I didn’t mean it like that. Not, like, the marriage as a _whole_. I meant it like you were supposed to come here two _hours_ ago so...you have failed this marriage in the _not-sexing-up-your-new-wife_ kind of way.”

A strangled noise comes out of his throat when his eyes finally land on her.

Seated on top of the circular glass table—legs crossed all too innocently—is his wife. But it’s not just the pose, or the heated look in her eyes that has him losing control of his sanity; it’s what she’s _wearing._

His Arrow suit.

It it, without a doubt, one of the sexiest things he’s ever seen.

He’s across the room in seconds, mouth capturing her’s with a needy growl. “Fuck, Felicity,” he sighs, arms gripping her leather-clad back. “You look...” At a literal loss for words, he can’t even finish his sentence. The suit is big on her (he’ll forever be enamored by how _small_ she feels in his arms)‚ but the fabric is tight enough to still mold deliciously to her curves. It’s hotter than hell, and the only thing better than seeing her in it will be seeing her _out_ of it.

The kiss breaks when he feels something sharp and insistent poke against his chest, forcing him to back away. His eyes narrow when he sees one of his arrows teasing his shirt. “Uh uh uh.”

He groans and drops his head on her shoulder, by way of silent apology. But then his mouth is perfectly positioned atop that tempting curve of her shoulder, so he presses his tong—

“Hey. Mr. Mayor.”

She pushes him back again.

“Yes?” he asks _incredibly_ patiently, because her Mr. Mayor nickname has him hardening even more.

“Remember when you said you’d be here at _eight?_ ” Her voice is saccharinely sweet, which always scares him a little. “And so I ordered food to arrive at _eight?_ And then you didn’t show up at _eight?_ ”

He starts to lean into her. “Honey, I—”

The damn arrow stops him again.

“Not so fast.”

He could never be mad at her— _especially_ when she’s dressed like this—but he can feel his resolve slipping with every second that passes. Because his wife is in head-to-toe leather and the only reason why it’s not off of her yet is because of _him._

“I’m sorry,” he says, truly, incredibly, _sincerely_ meaning it _._ “I should have called. It’s just...as I was walking out of the office, three developers walked in demanding why we’d put a hold on their zoning approvals, and since it was a clerical error, they stood at my desk until I made the calls to fix the problem. I know it’s no excuse, but I didn’t have a moment to text you.”

He really can’t tell if she’s legitimately annoyed or not, since his mask—his fucking _mask—_ is hiding most of her eyes, but her lips lose its pout and her shoulders perk up again.

And then she drags her tongue slowly across her upper lip as she zeroes in on his mouth, shifting so that she rubs her core against him. “It’s just...I’ve been waiting for _hours.._.”

And all must be forgiven, because she throws the arrow to the side and pulls him back down. The kiss is wet and relentless, and he swears to whatever god is up there that he will _never_ be late again.

He needs his pants off, but when he leans away to do it, she locks her legs around his back and scoots him back in close to her with a whine. The pressure sends a jolt straight to his groin.

A minute later, she pulls back to catch her breath and run her hands down his chest. “You know,” she starts, voice laced with seduction as she loosens his tie, “one of my recurring fantasies is you ripping me out of this suit, and...well, it was a slow night...and you were taking too long...”

His lips swallow the rest of her words and gasps. Unable to help himself (because it’s been one of _his_ fantasies too), he thrusts against her _hard_ , and she sighs out his name at the feeling. “Fuck,” she moans again, tilting her hips towards his impatiently. He knows she’s not used to the leather; it’s squeaky and tight and—thanks to _this_ —he knows it probably feels swelteringly hot. So when he begins to claw at the side zipper, stopping to tease her covered breasts, she nods into the kiss and sighs in relief. “Yes, get this _off_.”

His hands are too frenzied and desperate to be successful and she suddenly laughs against his mouth. He growls in response, not amused, and continues to kiss her every chance he gets. “Leave it to _today_ for when I can’t get this fucking thing off in five seconds,” he mutters, pressing his mouth to her’s again.

It takes the two of them to do it, and then another minute to get his pants off (he’d distracted her), but they eventually get the job done.

She isn’t wearing any underwear and the fact that she’s been completely naked under his suit has his head spinning. And then he feels her warm, deliberate hands grasp him, and he’s officially out of patience. “Condom?” he asks quickly, practically seeing stars.

She groans, shaking her head and rubbing against him more persistently.

They both know she went off birth control last month, so the not-having-a-condom part makes them both pause for a beat. They definitely want kids, (that’d been one of his favorite conversations during their honeymoon), but the _when_ part is still up in the air. So he looks at her questioningly, silently asking for quick permission before their lust-crazed hormones make the decision for them. They’re both struggling to maintain their composure—she hasn’t stopped touching him for even a _second_ —but after a beat, she gives him a tiny nod of approval. His heart flutters at her smile, and though he wants to bask in this moment forever, she tugs him by the hips to slide him home.

It’s hard and fast and the Arrow suit will _definitely_ need a thorough cleaning when all is done, but it lives up to every fantasy he’s ever had, so he’ll gladly wash it himself.

Actually, scratch washing it.

“You do realize I’m going to need a new suit right?” he muses afterwards, on the floor over cold pad thai.

Sated and glowy, she just smiles at him. “Yeah...I _do_ rock it better than you.”

He kisses her for that, then puts his chopsticks to the side. “I’m just not going to be able to ever wear it again.”

She crawls on top of him to straddle his waist, dinner forgotten and ready for round two. “But then what if I want to wear the _next_ one?”

.

.

tbc

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two more to go! I always appreciate comments, if you’re inclined to leave one. Thank you so much for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for taking so long to update! A busy full-time job does not allow for much writing time, unfortunately :) Nevertheless, I hope you like this (very) fluffy chapter.

“Remind me to find us a new dry cleaners,” Oliver says by way of a greeting, right after she answers her phone.

She’s on the ground of their bedroom, rooting through what seems like the _thousandth_ box she’s dug through over the past few months. This one has random things from her college days. But not the fun, memory-filled Felicity Goth Phase stuff. Just ratty t-shirts and random items from her dorm room—from old notebooks to her hairdryer. She continues rifling and, since both her hands are busy, raises her shoulder to better hold her cell phone against her ear. “Why do we need to switch?” she asks, distracted by the mass of cords knotted at the bottom of the box.

He sighs. “They lost my favorite white dress shirt. I went to pick up our clothes and it hadn’t been cleaned. They said it was never in the batch you dropped off, but I know I put it in the dry-clean pile.”

“That’s weird,” she answers, still busy and preoccupied with the cords. “I thought it was in there too. But you can buy a new shirt, you know. I think we can afford to get you another one. Just _one_ , though,” she jokes, smiling to herself and dropping the wires.

He chuckles into the phone and just the sound relaxes her aching back. She’s been on her feet all morning and her muscles are not happy about it. She gently pushes the—as it turns out— _very_ uninteresting box away, leans against her bed, and gives her husband her full attention. “It’s a white dress shirt that probably looks like the hundreds of other white shirts that they clean there each week. I’m sure it was a simple mix-up. Nothing to change dry cleaners over.”

He laughs again. “You’re just saying that because you like that they keep a bowl of candy on the counter.”

“Maybe,” she admits, heart fluttering at how well he knows her. “They’re nice, though.”

“Yeah, they are. I just like that shirt. It has my initials monogrammed into the cuffs. Anyway, what’s going on there?”

She lets out a long breath, shifting to change positions on the carpet. Leaning against the side of their bed is not comfortable, but she doesn’t feel like searching for a pillow. Or moving. “Nothing much. Just unpacking some of the last few boxes I found. My back is killing me.” 

He sighs through the phone. “Honey, I told you not to do that without me. I don’t want you overdoing it.”

“I know, I know,” she says, batting the air even though he can’t see her. “I didn’t do anything strenuous, don’t worry. It’s mostly junk, so I’ll wait until you’re home to throw it away.” She sits up straight and brings her free hand around to her back to try to massage the ache away. 

“Thank you. I’ll be there soon...ish.” He knows that _she_ knows he’s being vague, but he still commits and pushes through.

“Uh huh,” she answers knowingly, turning on her Disapproving Wife tone. “Just come home.”

She ends the call soon after, admiring their home from her spot on the floor. The Queen Manor hadn’t been occupied since Thea and Oliver had moved out years ago. It’d never been put on the market, so after they were married, it was theirs if they wanted it. And they’d _wanted_ it. They’d done the storybook house in Ivy Town and the modern loft downtown, but they wanted a _home_ —a place they could raise a family in and make memories of their own.

Marriage has brought so many wonderful things; most of which, she believes inherently, is the _sharing._ They share everything with each other. Memories, stories, secrets, flaws. Oliver had been so guarded and private when they’d first met—and for good reason—but she can never deny the honor she feels each time he unveils himself a little more to her and shares something. In their vows they’d atoned each other for all their past faults and wrongdoings, though they were very deliberate in not casting them away. Their union had been a testament to so many trials and tribulations—from his shipwreck, to super villains, to life-threatening injuries, to even _aliens_ —and so they still honored the past for what it did to bring them together, no matter how harrowing some of it had been.

He trusts her with all his being—and she, him—and she’s still completely humbled by the fact that he chose _her_ to be his person. For everything: the good and the bad, the funny and the embarrassing, and the regret and the joy.

And so through those moments of sacred disclosure, she’d come to learn that despite some rocky teenage years, his childhood had been pretty magical, and a lot of that had to do with the Manor.

Though they’d started not... _not_ preventing that memorable night she wore his Arrow suit, she hadn’t gotten pregnant right away. They’d been okay with that, though, since it had told them how much they wanted a family and how _soon_. Oliver had reached out to his lawyers almost immediately after to make the house officially his (well, _theirs_ ) again. They believed a baby would happen when it happened, and so they’d gone head first into renovations to update the semi-neglected home and just enjoyed trying a _lot_.

When two pink lines had shown up on the stick during the fifth week of renovations, (she’d originally blamed her nausea on the paint fumes), they knew it had been fate.

The home is larger than they really need, but now that they’re here and it’s all theirs, she couldn’t imagine being anywhere else. Knowing that a tiny Oliver had slid down the main stairwell banister on Christmas morning, and made forts with Thea in the sunroom, and had family s’mores night by the living room fireplace with Moira and Robert, made it feel all the more perfect. She wants that for them—all of it—and just the thought has her feeling all the more thankful for the baby rolling around inside her. She smoothes a hand over her rounded stomach, which is mainly concealed by the large fleece sweatshirt she’s wearing (she's _always_ cold), and feels around for more movement. She smiles when she feels none. The baby is typically more mellow this time of day, so she’s not surprised.

Feeling her stomach rumble from hunger, she slowly pulls herself off the carpet and makes her way downstairs to the kitchen. A glance at the clock tells her dinner isn’t too far off, so she cuts up an apple as a snack before heading into the family room. Walking over to stylish sectional, she props the pillows against the left armrest and carefully lays down, turning to face the coffee table where she can rest the plate of apples. Since their new couch had arrived a few weeks ago, she’s been practically living on it. It’s comfortable for everything—working from her laptop, reading, watching a movie—but _especially_ napping, which she does regularly now.

Pregnancy has thrown her for a loop. She feels so thankful each and every day for being able to carry their child, especially since she didn’t think she _could_ after her spinal injury. Oliver tells her—and shows her—every single day that she’s never looked more beautiful, and honestly? 95% of the time she feels pretty awesome. But the other 5% has definitely made her feel like a stranger in her own body. The lack of coffee had taken time to get used to, her memory has suffered a (big) hit, her body temperature fluctuates _constantly_ , and her wardrobe has added more leggings and sweats (for when she's home). Not to mention how tired she is.

Now entering her sixth month, the exhaustion still reigns. According to the giant pile of pregnancy books her husband had purchased, a burst of energy is due to kick in any day now, but she’s still unable to make it through the day without a nap. It’d drive her crazy if she didn’t need them so much.

She finishes another apple slice before closing her eyes for a moment. Oliver will be back any minute from his mysterious outing and so she tries to force herself to stay awake to probe him about it. He can’t really keep a secret from her anymore—another upside to marriage—so his jumpy, jittery behavior this morning had her immediately suspicious. He’d just barely avoided her interrogation, though she’d tried _many_ tempting (and naked) tactics, but he’d just assured her that she would know soon enough. If she were to guess, it has to do with the baby, since everything does these days. Prior to finding out she was expecting, Oliver had been the wonderful husband she always imagined him to be, but since the second they’d confirmed her pregnancy he’s been an absolute _dream_. She’s so in love with him her heart sometimes feels too big for her chest. And though she’s excited to meet their baby, this little being they created together, she’s excited to see him as a dad _more._

Some time later, she's kissed awake. Blinking open her eyes, she's met with his blue ones and hopes for the thousandth time their baby inherits them too.

“Hi, babe,” she says, voice scratchy with sleep. “Sorry, I was just shutting my eyes for a few minutes.”

He chuckles at that, since he’s been letting her sleep since he got home over an hour ago. “Don’t apologize,” he says, brushing her hair off her forehead. “ _I_ should. I’m sorry I've been gone all day.”

“That’s okay,” she says through a yawn. “I missed you though.”

“Me too.” He kisses her softly again. “Want to see your surprise?”

She’d been _dying_ to know the secret, but knowing their lives are going to get crazy in a matter of weeks, she decides she can wait a little longer. “Mmm, soon. Come lay with me for a bit.” She tugs on his arm and he acquiesces easily, moving to lie down behind her, so her back is to his chest.

She lasts a minute before she moves away.

“Ugh, you’re too hot. And now I’m hot,” she complains, twisting away from him so she can pull off her thick fleece sweatshirt and go down a layer. One look at his smug grin has her words sinking in her mind. “I didn’t mean it like your body is _hot_ hot…well, it _is_ , but...” Flustered by her own words and his wandering hands, she laughs and gives up. “I’m too tired to explain.”

“Just come here,” he says fondly, pulling her back down against him. She burrows in closer, happy to not need the distance anymore, and feels him kiss her temple. “How’s this one?” he asks, moving his hand to her stomach.

“Currently misbehaving.”

He huffs a laugh into the back of her neck, charmed by her response. “How so?”

“Won’t stop moving,” she mumbles, already sounding like she's drifting off again.

He smiles. “Isn’t that a good thing?”

“Not when I want to sleep.” Her palm covers his hand and she moves it to a new spot, where they both feel a soft _thump_. Her voice lowers to a whisper. “Mama wants to sleep, baby.”

At that, his heart warms. The idea that she’ll soon be “mama” to their baby will never fail to catch his breath. (How, he wonders daily, is this is life?) After returning from the island, he’d never have guessed that he’d end up with more happiness than he could imagine. The fact that their baby will soon sleep in his childhood nursery, in his childhood home, is almost inconceivable. Not only that, but in the same _crib_ that he and Thea had slept in.

(That’s what he’d picked up earlier: he’d had the crib restored and fixed to current safety measures, and it sits waiting in the cream-colored nursery upstairs to surprise her.)

The baby settles beneath their palms, but they both keep their hands in place to wait for more movement just in case. Well, he does. She, instead, begins softly tracing patterns on his hand that rests against her, and he feels the cuff of her shirt sleeve tickle his skin from where it’s unfolded down to her wrist. He smirks at the sight—OJQ is monogrammed in navy blue, right next to where cufflinks would typically go.

He should have known.

(He’ll tell her tomorrow that they don’t have to change dry cleaners.)

.

.

tbc

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go! I always appreciate comments, if you feel inclined to leave one. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! (And come say hi on tumblr - same username.)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn’t mean to take so long to finish this story!
> 
> I’m hoping to write some more this summer, if real life allows me time ...maybe I’ll try out the hiatus fic-a-thon one week :)
> 
> The “clothing” in this chapter is a bit of a stretch, but I hope you like it anyway! Enjoy!

She’s only been gone 48 hours, but Felicity’s ready to be _home_. She misses the mess of dinner, the madness of bathtime and especially the warm, tiny snuggler that crawls into her bed at 5am.

She also really misses her husband.

( _Really_.)

Especially now, as looks around her lonely, cold hotel room. It’s an unnecessarily large suite for just one person; but the hotel had staunchly refused to let her downgrade to a smaller room. It’s just ridiculous, really. It looks like it was built for a family—complete with a kitchenette, living room, and two bedrooms—and it only makes her miss _her’s_ that much more. The height and view alone would have her daughter bug-eyed and wowed, with her little mouth dropped open in awe.

This last-minute business trip, though important, had come on one of the worst weeks. She’d unsuccessfully tried to push it back by a few days and even asked Curtis to attend in her place; but after Lateral Tech’s CEO personally requested she fly out to close the deal, she’d acquiesced and booked her travel.

Although she loves her company with all her heart and is incredibly proud of what she’s built, she hadn’t been thrilled about missing her daughter’s spring concert and four-year doctor’s appointment. And though Oliver had reminded her that there’d be plenty more concerts (and annual check-ups) in their daughter’s lifetime, she just really _really_ wanted to hear her little girl sing “Frère Jacques” with her class. (Never mind the fact that she’d heard it nearly a thousand times in her own personal concerts at home.)

But with the deal officially closed as of this afternoon, she only has to make it through one last evening before she can head home in the morning. She can’t wait to smack the cheeks of her daughter, kiss the lips of her husband, and hunker down for the weekend with her favorite people.

But first, she needs to shower and make it through this work dinner.

At least she brought her new pretty shoes to wear.

Twenty minutes later, she’s stepping out of the bathroom, wringing her hair dry, when she hears her phone vibrate on the desk. Knowing who it is, she smiles and unlocks the screen.

 

Oliver, 6:35: FaceTime before her bath/bedtime?

Felicity, 6:35: YES. I’m around. 

Oliver, 6:36: Ok. Will call in a min.  
Oliver, 6:36: Our girl...quite the dramatic.

Felicity, 6:36: She learned from the best. xx 

Oliver, 6:37: That she did.

 

Before she can even swap her towel for a robe, she hears the tell-tale ringtone chime from her tablet and immediately presses the green circle to connect. 

Her heart flutters at the sight of her husband on screen, who’s looking even more handsome than when she’d left him.

“Hey, you,” she says, bringing the tablet over to the bed to sit down.

“Hi, babe,” he greets, before dropping his gaze to take in her form. His eyes darken at the towel wrapped around her body and droplets falling down her collarbone.

Once upon a time, she’d reply very differently to that look; but knowing their daughter is most likely nearby, she just wags her finger at him. “No sexytimes,” she warns, though she still flushes with appreciation as he continues to admire her.

“When do you come home again?” he muses, his voice low enough to make her insides go warm.

She smirks. “10 am tomorrow. Now, where’s my favorite girl?”

“Right in front of me. We’ve had some tears, here, today,” he tells her with a charmed smile, looking off to the side.

Felicity frowns and sits up straighter, Mom Mode officially activated. “Tears? What’s wrong? Did something happen at school? At the doctor?”

There’s a quick shuffle on the other side of the camera as Oliver pulls Stella onto his lap, and the view of them together is the same perfect picture as always, except with one new addition.

The glasses perched atop her daughter’s nose.

Felicity gasps at the sight, in happy shock. “Oh my gosh! You got glasses!”

Stella reaches up to wipe her teary eyes and—not used to them being there—promptly knocks her frames askew. It only makes her more upset, and before Oliver can even reach down to fix them, she swivels in his lap and curls against his chest, out of sight.

They share an amused look through the screen, even as her heart breaks a little.

Oliver rubs his hand down her back. “Apparently since Sara Diggle doesn’t wear them, Stella doesn’t think she should either,” he explains, trying to stifle a laugh. “But even though I told her my little secret—that I think all the prettiest and smartest girls wear glasses—” he says close to her ear, tickling her sides in an attempt to pull out a smile, “She’s still a little sad about wearing them.”

Felicity’s heart flutters at his sweet tactic. Their daughter can certainly be dramatic at times, so she can only imagine the waterworks her husband must have dealt with all afternoon. And even though it doesn’t work to stop her tears, the way Stella still clings to him for comfort says it all.

Ever since the moment Stella was born he’s been the amazing dad she always knew he’d be, but it’s in these small parenting moments—the ones that catch them off guard and make their heads shake with laughter—that make her truly grateful to parent alongside him. Working with a team was something she’d done for years, but she’d never understood what true teamwork was until she’d begun raising a little human with Oliver Queen.

It’s more challenging than the hardest code she’s ever cracked, but it’s also more rewarding and wonderful than she’d ever dreamed.

Even in moments like this.

“Honey, let me look at you,” she encourages softly, wishing for the thousandth time she was at home and able to wrap her arms around her daughter. “I didn’t even see what color you picked out!”

Stella just shakes her head, sniffling quietly.

Sighing, she takes a moment to think of her next move. She knows her daughter well enough not to push her—the stubborn Smoak gene had _definitely_ made its way down to her—so she tries a different strategy.

Sitting back against the hotel bed, she starts, “I remember when _I_ first got glasses. I was four—just like you. I was so sad though. None of my friends had glasses and I thought they looked really silly. But then I remembered that all the words in my favorite books were hard to read. And I always had to sit _really_ close to the TV when I watched movies, instead of my favorite spot on Grandma Donna’s lap, because I couldn’t see.” 

She can tell her story is working—Stella has tilted her face enough so that she can see the tears have stopped. Oliver has also used the time to gently run his fingers through her loose curls, which always makes her relax. But she’s still curled chest to chest with him, fists gripped tightly to his sweater, and mostly away from view.

Felicity continues, “Do you remember what my favorite book is?”

It takes a second, but Stella finally answers quietly, “ _If You Give a Mouse a Cookie._ ”

Felicity smiles. “Yeah, that’s my favorite. But guess what I thought it said?” Curious, Stella’s eyes flit towards her. “I thought it said _‘I_ _f You Give a Mouse a_ Cracker!”

A wide smiles spreads across the girl’s face. “That’s silly, mama!”

“I know! So silly. I thought that’s what it said though! But then I got my magical glasses and I realized it said _cookie!_ ”

“Cookies are yummier than crackers, mama,” her daughter says matter-of-factly, completely forgetting the main point to the story.

Stifling a laugh, Oliver drops a kiss to the top of her head, completely endeared by her.

Felicity smiles and agrees, “Yeah, baby, they are. Cookies are _way_ better than crackers.” She lets out a breath, crisis seemingly averted. “Okay, Stell. Are you ready to show me your pretty face now?”

Her daughter thinks about it for a long moment, but very slowly turns back towards camera.

And Felicity’s heart just about bursts.

They are pink, slightly dorky, and look almost too big for her tiny face, but they are absolutely _adorable._

Felicity gasps dramatically. “I didn’t know they made _pink_ glasses! How lucky are you!” 

Stella’s grin turns bashful and her cheeks redden from the compliment. “Daddy helped me pick them,” she says shyly, looking up at Oliver like he hung the moon.

Felicity’s heart warms. “Well, you both picked a very good choice. And sweetheart, it’s okay if Sara doesn’t wear glasses. Lots of your other favorite people do. Grandma Donna has glasses, Uncle Digg wears glasses sometimes. _And_ Aunt Thea does too.”

“Auntie Thea?” Stella gasps, looking more shocked about that than anything. 

Laughing, Felicity confirms, “Yes, she wears them when she drives.” 

“Wooow.”

Lowering her voice to a whisper, Felicity continues, “And you know who else wears glasses?”

Stella’s eyes widen with wonder. “Who?”

“Your daddy." 

“Really?” she gasps, spinning quickly in his lap to peer up at him in awe.

“Yup, I do,” he confirms, tickling her sides again. “But you never see me wear them, because I only put them on at night when I read in bed and my eyes are tired.” 

Adorably, Stella’s brow furrows in response to that and she reaches up and nearly pokes him in the eye. “Your eyeballs get sleepy?”

He laughs. “Yeah, they do.”

“Can I see them, daddy? Can you put your glasses on?” she asks, bouncing on his lap. “Then we can match mama!”

A look of terror crosses her husband’s face, and he looks to her in pure fear. The man has beaten countless criminals and villains, but at the possibility of disappointing his daughter, he panics.  

(Stella Queen has been wrapped around his finger since the moment she was born, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.)

Felicity just laughs, silently understanding the reason of his freak out, so she slides off the bed and carries the tablet over to her purse.

He looks down at Stella, guilt masking his face. “Actually, honey, I think I lost my glasses. I couldn’t find them last night and haven’t been able to find them today. I wanted to show you so we could match, but I don’t know where they went.”

Before Stella’s frown can return, Felicity chimes in. “I think I may know where they are. Hang on.” She reaches into her purse and pulls out her sunglasses. “What do you think, Stell...do you think these are daddy’s glasses?” she asks, slipping the Prada frames on her face. 

“No!” Stella giggles. “Those are for outside.”

“Oh,” Felicity answers dumbly, playing along. She picks up her own glasses, from where she left them before showering, and puts them on her face. “Well…what about these?”  

“No! Those are _your_ glasses, mama.”

“Hmm…” Felicity wonders aloud, pursing her lips and making a show of digging through her bag. After a second of searching, she pulls out the last pair and steps out of camera to slip them on her face. While her own are black, rectangular and slightly cat-eyed on the outer edges, Oliver’s are a little more bookish, with dark brown, rounded square frames.

(Take her word for it—Oliver Queen can _wear_ glasses.)

“Hmm...maybe...these?” When she steps into the camera’s view, the two faces on the other end have completely different reactions. While her daughter’s eyes light up with excitement, her husband’s darken with desire. Felicity silently tucks that away for future use, but focuses on the littlest Queen for the moment.

“Daddy, are those ones _your’s_? _!”_

Oliver swallows thickly, still distracted, and clears his throat. “Yeah, baby, those are mine.”

Oblivious to the heated moment, Stella cuts in. “Oh, mama! I forgot to show you! I got a purse for my glasses!” she says, sliding off Oliver’s lap to race away from view. 

Before Felicity can ask what that means, Oliver looks at her curiously. “Why do you have my glasses?”

She smiles. “I was on a conference call when I was headed to the airport the other day—running late, of course—and put on your glasses to look at a chart on my phone since I couldn’t find mine. They didn’t help me at all,” she laughs, shaking her head. “Your glasses can _barely_ be considered prescription. They’re _weak_.”

“Hey!” he protests.

“Luckily I had a back-up pair of my own in my purse. I forgot to take your’s off before I left, though. Sorry I never texted you...I didn’t mean to steal them.” 

“It’s okay, I didn’t really—”

“Look, mama!” Stella exclaims, running back into the camera’s view and scrambling onto Oliver’s lap again. “Look at my glass’s purse!”

Felicity’s hand unconsciously covers her heart as she looks to Oliver, because...no _._ They will _never_ correct their daughter and tell her it’s called a glasses case—not purse—because that is just way too cute.

“Wow, that’s pretty cool, Stell.” Noticing the time, Felicity scrunches her nose and frowns. “Ok, kiddo. I have to go get dressed for dinner. Is daddy going to give you a bath?”

“Yup!” she says,

“Want to go turn on the water?” Oliver asks, kissing her cheek. 

“Yeah!”

“Okay, baby. Have a good night. I love you,” Felicity says, blowing a kiss at the screen. “See you tomorrow.”

“Love you, mama!” Stella replies, smacking an air-kiss back before sliding off Oliver’s lap to run upstairs.

Once they’re alone, Oliver tilts his head and asks, “How did things go today?”

“They went well—signed, sealed, delivered.”

“Tell me more about it tomorrow?”

“Definitely,” she promises. “Alright, I’ll let you go before she floods the bathroom.”

As if on cue, they hear a, “Daaaaaddy!” from upstairs.

Looking slightly panicked, Oliver nods. “Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I love you.”

He winks. “Love you, too.”

Once they’ve hung up, she silently panics that she’s left herself only twenty minutes to get ready, but she doesn’t regret it in the slightest.

They’re always worth it.

 

**.**

 

The next morning, she’s barely through the terminal doors before she hears, “Over here, mama!” At the end of the walkway are Oliver and Stella, who’s waving so excitedly, her new glasses slip down her nose.

Laughing at the sight, Felicity crouches to her level once she reaches them and promptly fixes the frames. She leans back to take in the sight of her daughter—who looks so old suddenly, her eyes nearly water—before pressing kisses all over her face. “I almost didn’t recognize you with your new glasses on! I’m thinking I should get a pink pair to match you, what do you think?”

A wide grin breaks out on Stella’s face. “Good idea!” she nearly shouts, wrapping her arms around Felicity’s neck and hugging her tightly.

“Okay,” she laughs, standing to finally greet her husband. “Hi, babe.”

Leaning down, he presses his lips to her’s softly. “Hi,” he says simply, kissing her briefly again. “I missed you.”

Eyes sparkling, she smiles up at him, arching her back so she’s pressed against his warm chest. “I missed you too. Ready to go home?”

Their little girl takes the lead as he wraps one arm around her and the other to hold her bag. As they walk slowly towards the doors, he leans down to skim her neck with his lips. “So, I forgot to ask you last night…but do you think you can borrow my glasses again later? Say...after a certain _someone_ has gone to bed?”

At the feeling of his tongue teasing her skin, she has to force her eyes to stay trained on Stella, instead of rolling back. “I think I can make that happen,” she sighs, pulling away to tilt her chin up to kiss him properly. “You’ve always had a soft spot for girls in glasses, haven’t you?

He smiles, eyes bright with adoration as they travel from their daughter back to her. “Always.”

 

.

.

end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’d love to hear your thoughts! Thanks for reading. xx
> 
> (You can find me on tumblr too—same username!)


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